Brioche Made Easy

If opposites truly attract, my husband and i will be married forever. He likes process; I like results. He likes to take things apart to find out more about them; I like to make things so I can use them or, better yet, eat them. He has a degree in engineering; I skipped any subject that required that part of my brain and took science for poets-—pass/fail.

In fact, I managed to skip out on a lot: no calculus (happily, the poets also had a math class), no chemistry (although I’m sorry now that molecular gastronomy’s the rage), and no physics (despite my crush on one of the teaching assistants).

But sometimes even the wiliest of us get caught. Sometimes a teacher is just too clever and you get blindsided into doing the hard stuff, which explains how I learned to make brioche. I mean really make brioche. The way it was made when Marie Antoinette lost her head over it.

Those of you who didn’t cut history (or French) might recall that when the young queen was told that the peasants of her land didn’t have enough bread, she was quoted as quipping: “Qu’ils mangent de la brioche,” or “Let them eat [rich, buttery, impossible-for-ordinary-citoyens-to-afford, and oh so beautiful] brioche.”

Brioche is yeast’s most elegant achievement. Best known as a morning treat (the small buns keep company with croissants at a French breakfast), brioche is part bread, part cake. The milk, eggs, sugar, and butter come from the sweet kitchen, the yeast comes from the bread baker’s pantry, and the texture comes from heaven—gently pull at a piece and it stretches into lacy strands.

My guess is that the pastry cooks at Versailles had the same equipment for making brioche that the instructor of our baking class gave us: a bowl and a wooden spoon. We had to supply the elbow grease—and you need a lot of it to make brioche by hand, since it takes more than half an hour of beating the heavy, sticky dough to turn it into something so satiny you want to pet it. It’s tough work, and the whole time I beat that dough and cursed the teacher, I wondered why the palace cooks hadn’t started the revolution.

But here’s the truth—after transforming that dough from a mound of ordinary ingredients into a bread worthy of royalty, brioche is mine. I own it. I could make it blindfolded if I had to. And, 30 years later, it’s still my favorite dough to make—in a heavy-duty mixer.

Since I don’t believe that just because I suffered through Brioche 101 you’ve got to, too, I’m about to tell you everything I learned, and everything you need to know to ace it.

New yeast rises best

Use regular active dry yeast, not rapid-rise or quick-rising, and check the expiration date. I know it sounds obvious, but it’s important.

Temperature matters

Dissolve the yeast in liquids that are warm to the touch. Think Goldilocks: not too hot, not too cold, just about 110°F. And have your eggs and butter at room temperature.

Texture matters, too

The butter should be malleable, not mushy, and the same consistency as the dough. If it’s too hard, squeeze each little pat between your palms—it’s messy, but kind of fun and very effective.

Mixing matters almost most of all

It’s mixing and then even more mixing that give brioche its exquisite texture. Don’t skimp here.

Take time with the butter

It’s not the butter’s fault that it’s slow to blend with the dough. Add it a few pieces at a time, and don’t panic if it makes your beautiful dough fall apart—it’ll all come together with more mixing.

Listen to your dough

The dough will wrap itself around the dough hook and slap itself around the bowl. Keep your ears open for that slapping sound—it’s the sign that all’s right with the dough.

Be patient

Brioche needs time in the mixer, time to rise, an overnight chill, more rising time, and time to cool just a little before you tear into it—cooling helps set its luxurious texture.

I love using the dough for a sugar tart, a circle of brioche baked with custard, and I’ve created my own shape for the buns, making them bubble-topped, so they look like feather-light Frenchified Parker House rolls (that recipe is below). But if you fall hard for the dough, I know you’ll find other ways to use it—it makes great raisin pinwheels and beautiful loaves. Leftovers are the stuff of French-toast dreams.

You don’t get extra credit for being creative here, but you sure get extra pleasure. And that beats an A in any class.